


Paperweight

by Akayla



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Coping, Dark Thoughts, Depression, Drinking, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Depression, Lance (Voltron) Angst, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Langst, Literary Challenge, Literary References & Allusions, Other, Platonic Relationships, Relationships are really just friendship, Suicidal Thoughts, again it's minor, implied referenced suicidal thoughts, it's minor though, literary, literary fiction, mental health, not really though?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 10:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16972884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akayla/pseuds/Akayla
Summary: Upon returning to Earth, Lance finds it hard to reason It out the more he thinks about it, the more he tries...His death, that is.And they are no light burden to bear.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first real attempt at literary fiction- contains lots of metaphor and allusion and symbolism, so if you like to analyze, I think you'll enjoy it, and if you just want a nice long, emotional read, I think it'll work just fine.  
> If I manage to rewrite it well as an original, I might try to publish it, in which case, I will take this version off the site- if I decide that's what will happen, feel free to email me or DM me on Instagram to get a file download, if you want to read it again.  
> I'm actually really proud of this, this may be my best piece of fiction I've ever written... so I hope you enjoy! Love you all, see you on the other side of Season Eight! <3

.

.

.

.

.

That's sort of what death felt like.

Well, not exactly... but with the tip of the pen against the paper, he had to try and find some way to describe it... he supposed it was more like-

  
  


Blank space- except, no white paper. No background, no square of light hitting the paper, no- nothing. No thing.

His pen rested on the paper, the leaky ball point leaving a dull blue mark on the white surface as he pondered, searching his brain for the right words to describe death. His death, at least.

“Lance?”

Blue eyes- almost as dull as the smeared ink now marring his hand- lifted from the paper, to the hospital window, to the door of the gray and white room. His mother, Angela, stood in the doorway, watching her youngest son with a soft look settled in the lines on her face.

Lance pulled a smile to his face, setting the pen down and flipping over the paper. “Hey, _mamá_.” He paused awkwardly, trying to think of something to say, but he came up with nothing. Instead, he smiled again and stood from the small desk in his new hospital room (he'd been moved from the ICU just a week before, and he couldn't be more grateful- the constant beeping and hurried sounds and fading in and out of consciousness had done nothing to relax him). Angela took the movement as an invitation to enter, and she approached him with outstretched arms. Lance chuckled, and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Contrary to what his nephew had said, he had grown during his time in space. Leaving earth at 17 at 5' 8'', returning 2 years later at 19 (or 21, 22, what with the time jumps and whatnot) at 6 feet... it wasn't too much taller, but he dwarfed his mother even more now.

“Is there ever gonna come a day where you won't need to do this?” Lance gently teased.

Angela hummed, pulling away, and lifted her hands to Lance's cheeks. “How are you feeling, _mijo_?” she asked, ignoring his question.

Lance placed a hand over hers. “I'm fine, _mamá_. Just getting tired of the hospital room, that's all.”

Angela smiled, dropping her hands and moving to the well-made bed. She let her eyes fall on the paper on the desk by the window. “What were you writing? Another card?” She asked mischievously, referring to the get-well card Lance had written for Allura.

Lance laughed quietly, but moved to the desk again, picking up the paper and crumpling it. The last thing he needed his mother to see was a sheet of paper with an ominous title like _“Cómo se siente la muerta”._  He tossed it in the recycling bin. “Si. It was, but I got bored and doodled on it, so I should start over.” He lied, coming to sit beside Angela on the bed. “When are you all heading home?” He asked, changing the subject.

Angela took his hand. “Two weeks. You will be ready to travel by then- I know you can't stay with us-” She added, seeing Lance open his mouth. “-but they have agreed to let you stay for two or three weeks, then they will send someone to take you back here.” She said.

Lance sat in silence for a moment, contemplating this. He felt like he should stay and help figure out what was going on with the strange ship, with the Alteans (who still hadn't woken up), with all that, but...

He didn't... he wasn't really needed. And they were allowed to have some time with their families. Hunk had already left for his “vacation”, Allura and Coran were intensely focused on the new ship and its living power source, Pidge was with her family, Keith was... somewhere, he guessed, with Krolia and Acxa, whoever she was to them.

He could leave. It wouldn't matter.

“Lance? _Amor_ , are you okay?” Angela asked, pulling Lance out of his thoughts again.

Lance grinned at her, squeezing her hand. “ _Si, mamá_ , just making sure I've done everything I need to around here.”

Angela turned a little so she faced him. “You have this look, sometimes, like you are very far away. Where do you go?” She asked, sounding... not concerned, but maybe curious. “You look like you are searching for something.”

Lance shook his head, laughing. “Cabin fever, I think. I'm just looking forward to going home, even just for a while.”

Angela smiled, seemingly satisfied with this answer, and the white sheets shifted as she leaned in to hug him again.

A tree's lanky fingers tapped quietly on the window. The sheets felt synthetic and fake, less like cloth and more like plastic as it wrinkled under his thighs. Angela's arms were soft with aged skin, and warm, tight around his shoulders and she smelled like memories of loud dinners and bedtime stories. He could hear her breathing, feel her gray-streaked brown hair tickling his cheek and the crook of his neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. So much sensation in the simple act, in the room, in the way he blinked and returned the embrace. So much sensation-

Angela pulled away, smiling. He almost felt relieved. He guessed he wasn't used to the human contact yet. “Get some rest, or start a new note, _mijo_. I'll be back later.” She kissed his forehead. _“Te amo, amor.”_

_“Te amo, mamá.”_

The door closed with an almost inaudible click. He sat in silence for a moment, two... he stood, moved to the desk, opened the drawer and smoothed out a new piece of note paper on the faux wood surface, The pen scratched on the paper; Lance's soft breaths sounded like violent gales in the overwhelming silence of the sound proofed, sterile room.

“Death is not like a mother's embrace”

_“La muerte no es como el abrazo de una madre”_

Lance stared at the wall, unblinking, trying to catch the feeling once again, once again...

He sighed and folded the paper, once, twice- and tucked it away in the pocket of his jacket, which lay over the back of the desk's chair.

“It's too fleeting.” He murmured, but he didn't know what he was referring to. The wind died down outside the window. His eyes closed, listening to the silence.

“Too fleeting.”


	2. Chapter 2

One week until he left from the Garrison, until he visited Cuba, his home.

He’d been released from the hospital room and had been given a dorm-like room in what remained of the Garrison (the other parts were being restored).

He didn’t leave the room during the day, if he could help it. There were a couple mandatory checkups, so the doctors could make sure he was healing properly- five broken ribs, severe concussion, whiplash, and a displaced shoulder made for a slow, careful recovery- and his family visited him in his room, sometimes bringing him out to the plain Garrison “garden”. They thought he wasn’t getting enough fresh air… he went out at night, through, when most of the Garrison occupants (save for security) were asleep. He’d catch a glimpse of Keith sometimes slipping in and out of his own room, so he obviously hadn’t gone anywhere. He probably wanted to stick close to Shiro, who was seemingly always busy with the Garrison officials and learning the ins and outs of the Atlas.

Lance avoided them.

He felt as though his connection with the two pilots had frayed- possibly even snapped- over time. It kind of hurt, but Lance was used to rejection (or outright disinterest), so he could move on.

He wasn’t completely alone, though. Aside from his family, he often found himself sitting on the roof with Ryan Kinkade, one of the MFE pilots. He was quiet, but his interest in Lance’s bayard had sparked enough conversation to get them to a point of acknowledgement and… he guessed he could call it a friendship. Sometimes he’d talk about his rifle, or the adventures he’d had in space, and Ryan would sometimes add in a comment or two, and sometimes they would merely sit in comfortable silence on the roof of the Garrison dorms, enjoying the stars and maybe share from a canteen of cheap liquor that Lance was  _ technically  _ old enough legally partake in. He liked it, not having to feel like he needed to put up a front- he’d become quiet, and Ryan didn’t know how he used to be, so he didn’t expect anything else.

This common occurrence is what led him to his current activity- sitting against the metal box that housed the electronics for a large loudspeaker, his head pleasantly foggy, eyes unfocused on a horizon that was located more in his thoughts that over the Arizona desert. Ryan had left earlier, having quietly explained that he needed to get up early for a group training exercise.

Lance hummed to himself and tucked one knee to his chest. A warm summer breeze played with his hair, breathed over his skin. He closed his eyes. It was so quiet, it could have been that void, if it hadn’t been for the metal, warm from a long day of hot sun, slick under his skin, his palms, his bare feet. He didn’t feel  _ quite  _ like he was floating, just light. It all felt off,  _ wrong,  _ so  _ different,  _ because it- he  _ felt  _ that Death hadn’t been like that, Death had been-

Footsteps sounded on the metal, and Lance’s eyes fluttered open. He blinked at the slowly approaching figure. The Garrison uniform threw him for a loop, but the hair gave it away.

Whoops. And he’d been doing such a good job of keeping his distance.

“Oh. Hey.” The achingly familiar voice spoke as he finally noticed the slumped form on the floor.

Lance watched him, expression lax and eyes heavy with what felt like exhaustion. He tried to find the motivation to smile, to put up that “goofball Lance” mask, but he couldn’t. He settled for a quiet grunt. “Hey.” He rasped.

Keith sat down next to him, boots scuffing the weathered metal. He frowned a little, side eyeing Lance. “What… what are you doing up here?” He asked awkwardly.

Lance chuckled lazily, slightly amused at the  _ mighty Black Paladin’s  _ lack of social graces. He gestured loosely to the clear sky. “Looking, I guess… thinkin’ a bit.” He muttered.

Keith was almost as quiet as Ryan.  _ Almost.  _ “...about anything in particular?” He asked, looking like he wanted to keep the conversation going. Lance shrugged and offered another noncommittal grunt in response. Silence. Lance’s thoughts spun like a gentle wash, delicates only- he tried to keep those heavy loads for the more private settings. “...are you  _ drunk?” _ Keith broke into his musing, and Lance realized too late that the other man had leaned closer.

He snickered. “No.”

Keith frowned again. “Okay, but you’ve been drinking.” It wasn’t a question.

Lance shrugged once more. “A little.” He admitted.

“Alone?”

“Nah, Ryan was here too.” Lance mumbled, picking at a ragged cuticle out of boredom.

“Ry- who?” Keith’s brows pinched together in confusion, lips twisting into something that resembled a pout, almost.

_ ‘How cute.’  _ Lance threw that off-hand thought aside. That was at  _ least  _ a “normal load” thought- right now, he only wanted to deal with the chiffon and soft tulle. “Kinkade, one of the MFE pilots- the one with the sniper rifle.” He explained.

Keith made a sound of recognition after a short, tense silence. “You two have gotten close, then?” His voice sounded forcibly light, something that didn’t slip by Lance’s (admittedly dampened) observation skills.

“Aw, you jealous, Keith?” He mustered the tease to his tongue, but it was like lead- sweet, but heavy in his mouth.

Keith looked sharply at Lance, and the younger pilot felt a dramatic shift in the atmosphere. Any words, any jibe that had been forming he quickly swallowed back, and he saw Keith building his next sentence, the indigo eyes becoming thorny with determination.

Lance placed his palms to the metal and clambered ungracefully to his feet. Crossing his arms over his chest, he sighed in a show of casual finality. “Ah, doesn’t matter- it’s late, I gotta-”

Keith shot up, eyebrows furrowed. “Why are you avoiding us, Lance?” He spat out, fists clenched and eyes confused. Lance silently watched the anger drain from them, and Keith’s voice became soaked with distress. “Did I- did we do something?” He pressed quietly, eyebrows shifting yet again in a softer, more vulnerable expression.

Lance averted his eyes, uncomfortable with the sheer amount of emotion.

_ It  _ hadn’t been like this.

“...you guys didn’t…  _ do…  _ anything.” He finally said. 

Lance watched as unrest heated and boiled in his fellow pilot’s being, watched as it spilled through his veins and stiffened his shoulders, clenched his fists.

“Then what  _ didn’t  _ we do!? What is going on?! I’m confused- I-I’m lost here, Lance!” He stepped forward until they were just a foot apart. “You’ve  _ barely  _ talked to us since the fight! And I know it’s just us, because you spend time with your family, and you  _ drink with some dude you barely know!  _ Help me figure this out, Lance!” HE roared, cheeks flushed with anger.

Mere months ago, Lance would have tensed, risen up to meet Keith with an equal amount of irritation and displaced rage, but now, he only stood, relaxed and oddly loose, before the furious man.

_ It  _ hadn’t been this angry.

Lance exhaled through his nose. He could barely feel the wind on his arms, in his hair, couldn’t smell the scent of mid-summer flowers that permeated the air around them, couldn’t see the many lights scattered around the Garrison grounds. His gaze tunneled, focusing on that bright point; purple eyes blazing with emotion, drowning in it, all the  _ emotion- _

“They should just replace the loudspeakers with you, your voice… carries.” He suspected his words meant something else, and his hand clenched next to the tightened spot in his chest. He didn’t  _ want  _ that, not  _ that-  _ “I’ve gotta get to bed, Keith, I’m getting ready to leave next week.” He turned on his heel and marched across the roof to the door that would lead to the stairway.

“Lance, please, I’m so lost here, just-” Keith’s voice broke off, and Lance paused, one hand on the door handle, the other in his pocket, clenching a piece of wrinkled paper in his fingers.

“...throw me a rope here, Lance.”

Lance’s shoulder sagged under the weight of Keith’s words.

Too much emotion.

_ It  _ hadn’t been this confused-

_ It  _ hadn’t been this  _ confusing.  _

Lance opened the door and- without a word- slipped into the dark maintenance stairwell. He heard a voice quietly say his name, almost - _ no, not almost-  _ completely defeated.

His thumb rubbed the paper, and it crinkled softly in his pocket. He made a note to himself to take a pen to its surface, to add to the thought already scribed onto its bland surface.

“Death is not filled with anger and confusion”

_ “La muerte no es lleno con enojo y confusión” _

Keith didn’t come running down that dark stairway after him. He didn’t seek out the barefoot boy in his room, and he didn’t make himself available during the following days.

Lance was standing by the Garrison issue car, bag in hand, when he caught a glimpse of the Black Paladin standing, arms crossed, head down by the door to the dorms, rocking on the balls of his feet, looking like he wanted to run somewhere. Shiro appeared at his shoulder and Lance ducked into the car.

_ ‘Too much emotion.’  _ He thought, settling into the back seat next to Marco. He smiled dimly at his brother as he spoke, not hearing a word and escaping into his head.

_ ‘All too much.’ _ _ _


	3. Chapter 3

 

Being greeted so enthusiastically by his niece and nephew would be something he never got tired of.

A genuine, happy laugh escaped him as the two young children leapt at him. He caught them, wincing (just a bit) at the dull pain in his chest. He waved off his mother’s disapproving yelp and pulled them close. The paper crinkled in his breast pocket, loud, attention seeking- he made a point to ignore it. _“Hola, niños- qué bola?”_ He murmured, squeezing them, finding comfort in their small arms around his waist. Maybe he _had_ missed human contact after all.

His nephew grinned widely- he was missing a tooth, that was new. “The house was finished, finally!” The young boy cheered, bouncing away out of Lance’s arms to Luis’ side. “ _Papá_ said it was a miracle your room was okay!” He giggled.

Lance smiled sadly and stood up, his small niece still clinging to his pant leg. “A miracle, huh?” He echoed, looking around. They were parked along a sandy, broken road- he recognized it as the one that would eventually lead to his family home.

Cuba was not the same. It had always been broken, rubbled reminders of WWIII, but the destruction around him was new, and in various states of repair. Cranes and other somewhat outdated construction equipment littered the skyline, and cast unfamiliar shadows at his feet, across the old buildings and dusty footpaths. It wasn’t right, it was just _off, just_ off enough to bring a light, fluttering feeling of unease to his chest-

“Ey, Lance- time to stop spacing out, you’ve had enough of that.” Marco snapped Lance out of his statuesque reverie, and Lance watched him gesture to Luis’ old, beat up minivan with a grin. Lance returned the smile and shoved his bags in the hatchback, before sitting up front with Luis as they left the airport shuttle bus behind them. The road was potholed and torn, just like (more so than, but he could pretend that things had not changed) he remembered, and he watched out the window, watched the trees, the glimpses of the shore, the water, frothing, endless, deep, dark, profound- _profound-_

The crinkling of the paper grew loud in his ear, and he noticed he had taken it out and was gently smoothing it between his fingers. He exhaled slowly, looking around with feigned nonchalance, but Luis had his eyes on the road, and the others in the back were occupied with two small, excitable children, so no one noticed him finding odd comfort in a piece of old note paper.

The paper was refolded and tucked away in his breast pocket for later.

Well, he knew where his first solo walk was going to take him.

The first six days of this stay left him very little time to sit and contemplate whatever thoughts drifted through his head. His nieces and nephews demanded his near constant attention, his father would ask him every question that came to mind, most of them regarding space, but trying to avoid the topic of the war itself. His mother spent, on the third day, a good two hours fussing over his collection of scars, rubbing various home remedies like lemon juice and aloe on his skin and leaving him smelling like apple cider vinegar and coconut oil for the next 48 hours. Marco and Luis teased and begged for recounts of battles, and Veronica disappeared into her room for hours on end with pieces of simple Altean tech. Rachel showed him all the progress she'd made in her star charts (photos, of course- the real, mural-sized papers had been lost with most of the house during the initial invasion...

So on the seventh day-the one he found himself waking up exhausted on- he dragged himself out of bed at that ungodly hour of the morning (five o' clock was a loathsome morning wake up time, but Lance barely slept anyways) and quickly scribbled a note on a piece of paper, leaving it on the kitchen table. He didn't want to send his family into a panic over his unannounced absence.

Lance shrugged on his canvas jacket and laced up his sneakers- he'd probably regret it later in the day, once the relentless summer sun had beat down upon the sand and the stone structures, but he appreciated the many pockets the coat had... lots of space to carry lots of things.

Without checking to see if he had money, or even a communication device, he slipped out of the house, where the early morning greeted him with solemn gray-blue skies and oxygen rich, sea stained air. He inhaled, exhaled, feet crunching on the gravel of his home's driveway as he wandered down the desolate road.

_Crunch crunch crunch_

Lance's brow furrowed in irritation, the noise grating against his bones. Absently, he palmed at his breast pocket, listening for the tell-tale, muffled crinkle of slightly softened paper and feeling his shoulders slump in relief when it reached his ears. He carefully drew it out, taking pains not to tear it, and unfolded it, eyes tracing his steady, deliberate wording. Another breath, another crinkle, and another step took him to the end of the road, where he veered off down an alleyway that would take him to the boardwalk and -eventually- the ocean.

His eyes took in the structures -some decimated, others in repair. No one was awake, except for the fishermen, but they were down on the docks, leaving the city streets to be occupied by lost souls... and Lance.

_'Including Lance.'_

Lance gripped the paper as if it had been the one to utter the soft words into his head. He shook them away, stumbling slightly as cracked concrete sidewalks gave way to sand.

He turned his back to the piers, and opted instead to follow the shore towards the more uninhabited parts of _Varadero,_ where the beach became rockier and less suitable for casual swimmers and beach goers.

By the time Lance had reached an out of sight, rocky area, where a part of the water had been sectioned off by boulders and sharp rocks, a subtle whispering had taken up residence in his head. It wasn't intelligible, and he figured it would go away eventually, but it was... _loud,_ almost. He found himself longing for silence, something he never thought he'd crave, but there he was, cursing the booming, resounding mutters in between his ears.

 _It_ had changed him, he figured. He couldn't - _and wouldn't-_ deny it to himself.

 _It_ had shown him a whole new realm, a whole new reality.

 _It_ had shown him complete silence and complete sound all at once, _It_ had shown him _respite, It_ had-

Lance growled to himself as the mutters got even louder. It wasn't even really bothering him that they were there... it was that he couldn't _understand what they were telling him._

“Make it stop.” His own, quiet voice shattered the cool air. Wincing, he pressed his hands to his ears, gently. Paper crinkled soothingly in his head, dimming the noise, but not drowning it out.

 _It_ hadn't been this infuriating.

 _It_ hadn't been this insistent.

Lance hummed, trying to remember what it had been like. It hadn't been truly comforting, but It hadn't been _uncomfortable_ either. It didn't impart any emotion, any sensation, it was just gone along with the air in his lungs, the oxygen in his brain, his heart...

Lance tucked the paper away, took off his jacket, his sneakers. He rolled the cuffs of his jeans up as far as the denim would allow and found himself wading into the water. It was cool, but not cold, almost the right temperature to forget it was even there.

The water lapped at his legs. His jeans became soaked in the waves, but he kept walking- past the rocky border, along the sand, out-out-out-in-in- _into_ the waves, the foam, the _depth-_

Lance didn't have time to take a breath before he went under- either the end of the sandbar was closer that he had thought, or he had zoned out enough to walk out farther than he'd intended.

Or... maybe this _was_ where he'd intended to go.

Either way, with no excess air in his lungs and his clothing dragging him down, he sank; not too deep, it wasn't that steep a drop off, but he could look up from where he hung -suspended- between the earth and the sky and see the light dancing on the rippling surface, watching small bubbles escape his parted lips.

Lance's stomach lurched at the familiar feeling- no; _similar._ What he'd been chasing, that dense, yet light, weightless and heavy sensation? Had he found it here?

He closed his eyes against the light, screwing them shut. There had been no light there. _It_ had had none. In darkness, he floated, blocking out the world, the water, everything.

The longer he stayed, the closer to _It_ he felt, but it also felt increasingly _wrong._ Sure, _It_ had been dense and weightless, warm and cold and soft and stinging and altogether an incredible feat of juxtaposition, but _It-_

 _It_ hadn't burned his lungs until they screamed for air.

 _It_ hadn't had currents like this- or maybe It _had,_ maybe he was _insane,_ but it hadn't _hurt, It_ hadn't tossed him, battered him-

He hit the sandbar. His back grated against the rocky sand and he _gasped-_

He flailed, eyes blown wide, blood flooding with the last reserves of oxygen and adrenaline and kicked, twisted, he _surfaced-_

Gagging and coughing up breathfuls of seawater, he somehow managed to drag himself into shallower water. On his knees, he retched, dry-heaving, finally throwing up the ocean into the water, over and over it seemed, _ongoing-_ his feet and back stung; he was sure he was bleeding too.

Tears of pain and frustration pulled at his throat. _Why_ couldn't he find It- _where- how_ could be find It!?

In defeat, he crawled onto shore, still coughing at the brine coating his lungs and throat. He curled in on himself, shivering, secluded, alone on the rocky beach, listening to the bay taunt him with her gentle splash- she seemed to time the waves to the thrum of his heart. He felt sick. He felt tired.

How long he sat there... he didn't know. Hours. Months. Years. No matter what length, the sun rose to its peak, touched his skin, warmed everything but his bones, and yet, still, he shivered.

The paper seemed as dense as the ocean in his jacket pocket, heavy and unignorable, as he trudged home. It dragged down his shoulders a little, pulling down on his chest so he remained curved in on himself.

He avoided his family upon entering- he heard them laughing in the dining room, enjoying lunch, and he couldn't see them now, couldn't hear them, not like this.

Once in his room, his cheap ballpoint pen tucked itself between his fingers, and the paper was spread out (and smoothed as much as possible) onto the bedside table. He paused, tip of the pen resting on his salty lip, before he wrote his third observation with anger festering in his fingertips, blazing out of frustration-

“Death is not like drowning”

“ _La muerte no es como ahogarse”_

Lance scowled at the paper, almost as if it were lying to him and he knew it. He slammed the pen down and made to grab the paper, rip it up, crumple it, _throw it out,_ but he stopped.

He regarded the little piece of paper, contemplated its worth, its weight.

He sighed, brows pinching together and head drooping. He carefully folded it and nestled it into his pocket, next to the warmth of his chest.

 _'What else do you have?'_ Came the soft, soothing voice.

The heaviness of the note prompted Lance to collapse into his bed. This did little to alleviate the pressure. A bitter smile twisted his lips.

“Nothing.”


	4. Chapter 4

His second to last day in Cuba. His family had -for those three weeks- attempted to open him up, get him to play with his nephews and nieces, to go out for a night with Rachel, to have him relax, and forget -just for a while- about war.

Well… needless to say, it didn’t really work. He suspected nothing would ever work to rid his brain of the images, memories and sounds, concepts. He didn’t know what to call it, this borderline obsessive way he dwelled on the ideas, the way he could become totally and utterly engrossed in the colours and flashes of blue and purple and  _ red,  _ so much  _ red…  _ he hesitated to call it PTSD -of course, he would jump if someone startled him out of his reverie, maybe stiffen up if he heard a loud  _ bang,  _ his trigger finger twitching with apprehension- but it was nothing compared to some of the others… Shiro especially. As long as Shiro suffered the way he did, who gave Lance the right to give the feeling a name with such heft?

Lance snorted, thick, white smoke billowing out of his mirthlessly grinning lips. “No point in dwelling on it then, hm?” He murmured to himself, pulling his legs up so his knees rested close to his chest. He shifted a bit in the sand, trying to get comfortable, as he lifted his joint to his lips again. His throat was scratchy from the smoke, and he was sure his eyes were shot through with pink, but it provided a familiar high, and something similar to  _ It;  _ something in the light, weightless density it brought to his head, to his body. He could close his eyes and imagine himself back in Red, in that pilot’s seat, drifting away into nothing… but it wasn’t quite right, because he was eternally stuck in that feeling of  _ almost there, almost there. _

_ It  _ hadn’t promised an end it couldn’t provide.

_ It  _ had offered no empty vows.

_ Had  _ It?

Lance coughed, eyes stinging as the cloud of heady smoke shrouded his face. His chest, his lungs, rattled.  _ ‘Maybe I should stop for now.’  _ His misty head offered. He took another long drag, eyebrows raised in a non-caring expression. He’d finish this one- no need to waste it, it had been an expensive (and  _ very  _ secret) gift from Marco. Besides… maybe if he had one more hit, one more sup at the end of the burning, rolled paper…

Perhaps  _ It  _ could be emulated.

Perhaps this uncomfortable, unscratchable itch -the feeling that he was now too small for his skin- would dissipate with the smoke.

His heart pounded at the thought -he felt oddly detached from it, though. It pulsed up his bones, blood, up through his feet,  _ ba bum, ba bum, ba bum- _

Lance frowned. That couldn’t be his heartbeat, not unless he had  _ four hearts  _ now… or maybe he was now  _ hearing  _ double… quadruple, whatever, didn’t matter.

_ “Whoa!” _

Lance looked up after blinking in shock, and found himself staring up at two long, powerful legs connected to a shifting, dense, off-white chest and neck.

It took him longer than he would’ve liked to admit to realize he was looking at a horse.

“You alright there,  _ compañero?”  _ Someone called out. Lance’s eyebrows shot up.

“The horse is talking…” He slurred, thoroughly confounded.

A full, rounded chuckle sounded. “That’s some intense stuff you got there… the horse is just a horse, friend.” Came the voice again. Lance’s cheeks flushed darker as he caught sight of the rider on the horse’s back. He muttered to himself (something unintelligible, probably, he couldn’t remember), took another glance at his half-burnt out joint, then promptly snuffed it out in the sand.

“Definitely time to stop…” He drawled to himself as the owners of the other three pairs of footsteps (hoofsteps?) drew up behind the white horse. He reminded himself to smile at his new company. “Sorry about that… and I in the path?” He asked, struggling to his feet.

The first rider -a tall, built man of around 20 with dark skin and black hair- gently patted his horse’s neck. “Nah… Nike here seemed to want to visit. Odd; she’s usually a bit overbearing.” He laughed.

As if on cue, the white horse -’Nike’, Lance’s muffled mind reminded him- took a step forward and shoved her snout against his chest, almost tipping him over. Her rider clicked in disapproval, but Lance snickered, rubbing her soft nose. “She’s strong.” He remarked.

“She’s  _ stubborn  _ is what she is; and she likes you. Take it as a compliment, she can be difficult.”

Lance hummed, feeling his fingers brushing over Nike’s velvety smooth nose. His heart beat again, this time his own. He liked this feeling -the feeling of the sand under his bare feet, the ocean breeze in his hair, the sunset’s light warming his skin…

But  _ It  _ hadn’t been nearly as sensational.

He turned his attention to the other three horses, smiling softly. “Who are these three?” He asked quietly. The riders exchanged an amused glance, but apparently decided to humour him.

They stepped towards him, all shifting where they stood. Bellona was the second one he was introduced to- a massive, chestnut-coloured creature who bowed her head to him with a derisive snuffle. Her rider raised her eyebrows at him. “She doesn’t usually like people- she likes to scare them.” She explained. The red horse stood still before him, and her rider offered him a friendly grin. “You must have experience with horses.” She assumed.

Lance only smiled. He didn’t, but perhaps the solemn animal sensed that he needed no more unpredictability in his life, not at that moment. He appreciated it- he wasn’t aware of how respectful an animal could be. Maybe he passed out, maybe this was all just a weird dream… but the sting in his lungs was real, so maybe not. He looked at the third (Zilla), and the gleaming black horse, in turn, dismissively turned her large head away from him. The rider -a young woman with a face mask covering her nose and mouth- began to apologize for the horse’s attitude, but Lance only laughed at the dismissal- it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to that sort of treatment, so he merely pulled his attention to the final horse- a pale, gray dappled Arabian.

The reaction was immediate.

As soon as their eyes met -deep blue into  _ profound  _ amber- the slender horse tossed her head, pawing at the ground and letting out a loud,  _ panicked  _ whinny, rearing up and forcing Lance -whose stomach had dropped into his shoes- backwards a good three, stumbling steps.

_ “Thana!”  _ The final horseman -or, rather, horsewoman- scolded, shock permeating her voice. Thana crow hopped backwards as Lance held out a comforting hand, shying away from his touch. Her flanks twitched and heaved under her coat, and Lance felt something akin to sadness well up in his throat.

Why wouldn’t she let him touch her?

He swallowed back the unwelcome lump and waved off Thana’s apologetic rider. “It’s alright.” He assured her. He smiled at the wild-eyed horse from what Thana deemed a safe distance. The rim of white receded as long as he stayed back- observed, but didn’t reach for her. “She’s beautiful- she kind scares me, though.” He paused, slow thoughts clicking together. “Scared.” He corrected himself, but the previous tense felt more right, somehow.

At this, the rider laughed. “Yeah- despite being so dainty looking, she’s pretty powerful… or, well, maybe intimidating.” She ran a calming hand through her mane. “She scares everyone… well, most people.” She murmured softly.

An awkward moment passed, and Lance coughed. He looked out toward the sunset and cringed. He turned to Nike’s rider. “It’s almost set- I’m so sorry, I kept you too long.” He apologized. He needed to sit down- he felt unsteady, off balance. What an odd encounter.. Or maybe it was just the pot.

The first man smiled and shrugged. “The horses needed the rest, I think. Don’t worry about it.” He watched Lance carefully for a moment. “Take it easy, man.” With that, the four horses started off -Thana giving him a noticeable berth and an impressive (cautionary? No, cautious…?) side eye. When Lance blinked his dry eyes once more, they were gone.

“Ey, Lance, why you just standing there?”

-made him wonder if they were even really there in the first place.

_ “-hermano?  _ Ey,  _ menor-” _

-why didn’t that horse- why didn’t it let him near?

“You good,  _ hermano?” _

-why didn’t It let him near?

“Oh,  _ dios mío,  _ you’re a goddamn kite… come on, it’s gonna get cold soon, and  _ mamá  _ and  _ papá  _ are worried about you.”

Lance turned, blinked, slack-jawed, at Marco. “Were they here?” He wondered, half to himself, half asking Marco for confirmation that he hadn’t just hallucinated that entire exchange.

Marco frowned. “¿ _ Mamá y papá?  _ No, I just-”

Lance grinned and shook his head, turning back towards where the sun was just dipping below the horizon. “Nevermind.” He murmured to himself, then -struck with a sudden thought and its subsequent panic- he thrust his hand into his jacket pocket, searching, searching, it better be there- if it  _ wasn’t  _ he was left with-

_ Crackle _

Lance slumped with relief upon hearing the familiar sound.

_ Still there, still there- _

“You still there, Lance?”

With a start, Lance remembered that Marco was there. He turned to him, lazy smile slapped across his face.

“Yeah, sorry,  _ hermano.”  _ He sighed, eyes turning unwillfully back to the hues of the fading sunset. His fingers worried the paper, smoothing it out to an almost fabric-like softness in places.

The sunset had been spectacular, but the hazy colours only amplified the muddiness in his head, and he questioned if any of what he’d just experienced was  _ real.  _ It didn’t cross his mind to look in the soft white sand for hoofprints- instead he rubbed the paper again-

- _ smooth, like velvet, like the horse- _

_ - _ and turned to his brother once more.

_ “Were  _ they here?” He repeated, more insistently this time.

Marco laughed and gently took Lance’s arm. “Come on, baby bro, time for you to get back to the house- boy,  _ you  _ are going to be one hell of a spectacle at dinner-”

_ Spectacle _

_ Spectacle _

Later that eventing, after a long (and embarrassing, when he looked back on it) dinner, after he’d shuffled his way up to his room and removed his jacket and its pocket’s contents, and after fumbling around for a pen, he leaned heavily on the desk, eyes drooping with exhaustion, lungs stinging, and bent-backed over the crumpled note paper, he exhaled slowly. He almost saw white-gray smoke, white-gray clouds and wave crests, white-gray horses dancing across the paper...

But he wasn’t sure if it was real.

He didn’t know what It  _ was- _

But he  _ did  _ know what It  _ wasn’t. _

He didn’t remember writing it, and he didn’t remember falling asleep atop his covers, and when he awoke, he didn’t  _ fully  _ understand what his jumbled reasoning had been the night before, but he couldn’t say he disagreed with the fourth, hastily scrawled conclusion on his little note paper-

“Death is not a spectacle”

_ “La muerte no es un espectáculo” _

Lance inhaled the scent of marijuana on his jacket, on the paper, and names flooded his mind like a cloudy haze-

Nike

Bellona

Zilla

Thana

_ Thana _

_. _

_. _

_. _

_ Thana. _ _ _


	5. Chapter 5

If someone had bothered to ask Lance, he would have vehemently denied being disappointed that -when his escort arrived- it was not one of the Lions that arrived.

He was though… even if he hated to admit it to himself.

However, he couldn’t find it in him to complain about the flight back- just as long, just as aggravating to his restless state. He was placed next to a Garrison official in first class on a normal plane (the only reason he complied with the seating was because his long legs would have been cramped) after he’d outright refused the offer of a private jet. That was a whole other level of pretentious that he’d feel sick about stooping to… but that meant he had to deal with the curious and (dare he say it) dehumanizing ogling of the upper class. CEOs who’d bought their positions and Ivy Leaguers whose daddy’s had secured their enrollments and knew little to nothing of the pain and effort of those who  _ toiled  _ to support themselves-

...Maybe Lance had a bias, growing up in a not-so-well-off family in a war-town Cuba… and ever since he’d been… withdrawing into himself, he’d found his temper wore thin a little faster these days.

He reminded himself that the seats included free champagne and kept his mouth shut for the entirety of the voyage.

The awkward silence between him and his escort provided the perfect environment for his thoughts to stew- to bubble away in his head. He closed his eyes, put in his earplugs, tried to block them out, but if Lance had learned one thing during his time on (and off) earth, it was that there was no running from your head.

When they became too loud to handle, his fingers would slip into the pocket of his jacket (which he hadn’t washed- oh  _ shit  _ that’s why he was getting some raised eyebrows) to touch the paper. It no longer crinkled- it had been worn down too much, and now had the texture of thin, fragile fabric. He figured he could still write on it, if he were careful not to tear it.

The end of the flight couldn’t have come soon enough. By the end of it, his feet and back ached, he felt just a  _ tad  _ dizzy, and his chest felt so heavy that he found it difficult to pry himself out of the seat to leave the plane.

“Enjoy your stay, sir!” A wide eyed flight attendant said as he exited the plane. No matter how tired and  _ despondent  _ he felt, he mustered up enough of that good old loverboy energy to flash her an acceptably charming smile. He didn’t see her response, however, and he was hurried off the plane by his escort of the other, disgruntled passengers.

He must have passed  _ right  _ out in the car, because the next thing he knew (after he’d finally buckled his seatbelt, under his escort’s disapproving glare) he was waking up in front of the Garrison with a hand gently shaking his shoulder. He almost groaned out loud as all the  _ thoughts  _ came rushing back, bringing with it a flash of pain at the front and sides of his skull. He rubbed his temple as he got out of the car.  _ ‘Great.’  _ He thought, stretching out his back and listening to the sharp resounding  _ pops.  _ His every muscle and a good 2/3rds of his bones already hurt; he  _ so  _ didn’t need a headache on top of it.

_ It  _ hadn’t hurt this much.

In fact,  _ It  _ hadn’t hurt at all.

_ “Lance!”  _

Lance gasped as he was pulled into a huge hug, and whatever vertebrae hadn’t been cracked from his stretching were  _ definitely  _ cracked now- maybe more than he would’ve liked.

“Hey, Hunk.” He said tiredly as he was let out of his teammate’s iron grip. He looked good- happiness practically oozed from him, made his eyes sparkle and his skin glow- Lance wished he had a face mask that worked that well… but it was obvious that the time with his family (and Shay, no doubt) had done Hunk a lot of good.

Hunk held him at arm’s length, grinning. “Dude, you  _ reek- _ ” He whispered not-so-subtly. He laughed. “It was Marco, wasn’t it? Nevermind, don’t answer that, it was  _ definitely  _ Marco, I don’t even need to ask.” He teased, clapping Lance on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, man- Jeez, I guess being stuck in space with someone for three years can get you attached, huh?”

Lance smiled, bemused.  _ ‘Obviously not too attached.’  _ He thought bitterly as Hunk became distracted by Pidge’s arrival, two cars down from where they stood. He watched as the two embraced, Pidge practically being swallowed up by him in the process.

“Welcome back, Lance.” Came a new voice.

Lance blinked in surprise and turned to face Shiro. He stared, then took the outstretched hand and shook it. “Hey, Shiro. Um… thanks.” What else was he supposed to say to that?! His cheeks heated a little with embarrassment. Where the hell had his social skills gone?! Was he  _ five?! _

_ It  _ hadn’t been this embarrassing.

His chest got a bit heavier and his head flared with pain again. He winced, but thankfully Shiro was already moving down to Pidge and Hunk. Lance lifted his gaze, holding his head with one hand, and locked eyes with Keith, who’d obviously been standing behind Shiro, as per usual.

There was a moment of tense silence as they both recalled their last direct interaction. Then;

“You look terrible.”

Not finding it in him to be even the least bit surprised, Lance barked out a laugh. “Who cares?” Came his gravelly voice in reply. That  _ did  _ surprise him a little- why on earth had be said that out loud? Ah well. Too late, and the same sentiment applied:

_ Who cared? _

Keith watched him, wide eyed, as Lance grabbed his bag and trudged past him towards the door. The sooner he got to his dorm, the sooner he could toss his jacket into the wash and the sooner he could lay down in that stark, gray and orange room and just melt into his mattress. He felt so heavy, so  _ weighed down,  _ and he  _ hurt  _ and he just wanted to sleep.. where that heaviness couldn’t reach him, and-

“Lance. Hold on.”

A hand grabbed his shoulder. He stopped walking, but didn’t even tense up. He guessed he just lacked the motivation to do so. Whatever. He’d just let him say what he had to say, then continue on to his room, He turned around to face his captain, making little effort to keep his expression neutral (and succeeding anyway). “Yes?” He replied.

Keith shuffled his feet, sighed, and stilled. Ah. there he was; the  _ leader.  _ How calm, how collected. Lance cleared his throat to cover a scoff.  _ Right.  _

“Look, Lance, I- we left things off badly last time… I got heated and… I’m sorry.” He held out his hand, a show of apology. “Are we okay?” He asked.

Lance eyed the offered hand for a moment. His heavy chest  _ hurt.  _ Was he-  _ were they-  _ okay? Keith hadn’t even done anything wrong, why was  _ he  _ apologizing? Lance should be the one offering the hand, the one with the apprehensive expression. Why did this  _ hurt  _ him so much?

_ It  _ hadn’t caused him this much pain.

He took Keith’s hand. “...yeah. We’re okay.” He muttered. He let go as if he’d been shocked, and turned on his heel. “Sorry.” He added.

“Hey, wait, Lance, are  _ you  _ o-?”

“I’m fine.” He interrupted, not wanting to hear the whole question, and definitely not wanting to answer it, or to even  _ think  _ about the answer… he had the feeling that he wouldn’t like it.

He thought a nice nap would leave him feeling refreshed- he had to be back on a decent sleep schedule by the coming week, but instead-

_ ‘Why is it so hard to get up?’  _ He thought, blue eyes finding a spot on the wall as he lay in bed, dressed in a pair of Marco’s old dorm pants and a hoodie. He felt utterly  _ pinned  _ to the sub-par mattress, like a great weight was resting on top of his stomach, pressing down on his chest, making his limbs feel like lead.

_ ‘Well, you’ll be totally useless if you stay like this.’  _ His mind supplied helpfully. The tightness - _ the heaviness _ \- increased, and Lance chuckled dismally to the dark room.

“More weight.” He said, his voice grim. He reached into his pocket, touched the paper. How could such a small, feather light object have so much density? It was incredible. His finger rubbed the well-worn corner, and it ripped -well, more like fell apart- under his prints. He pulled it out, sighing, to look at it. A little yellowed, wrinkled, soft,  _ comforting,  _ frayed at the edges and now torn at a corner. “...this is getting old.” He muttered. Relatively speaking, of course- paper tended to decay quickly in less than desirable conditions. “I should probably throw it out.” His eyes skimmed over his notes, the pen strokes and blots.

He tucked the folded paper back into his pocket,

“Maybe someday.”

‘ _ Maybe never.’ _

Lance groaned. “More weight…” He mocked the air another stone was place over his heart. He draped an arm over his eyes. “...damn.”

_ ‘Will this ever end?’ _

The itch, the desire to find that sensation again-

_ ‘You could.’ _

_ More weight. _

_ It  _ hadn’t been so pressing.

_ It  _ hadn’t been so heavy.

_ It  _ had been beau-

A knock on the door. Lance slowly opened his eyes, looking at the ceiling from behind his arm. He took in a shallow breath. “Mm hm?” He answered, not find the energy to speak just yet.

“Hey, man- come join us in the commons; you’ve been sleeping forever!” Hunk- that was Hunk.

Silence. Lance supposed he should answer.

“Lance?”

“I’m comin’, buddy. I’ll be out soon.” He forced out, inwardly scoffing as he heard how forced it sounded.

_ ‘Better than nothing.’ _

“Alright, man- see you in a bit.”

Needless to say, with the crushing weight holding him down, it took him more than a “bit” to pull himself out of bed. He didn’t bother changing into his uniform- no need, and it wasn’t as he had anywhere important to be.

It took him fifteen minutes to get himself to the common room, which was nearly empty, save for the team and a couple cadets. Lance guessed that the wonder of the Voltron Paladins had pretty much worn away- they only spared him a glance as he sat down at the counter with a barely audible sigh. Hunk looked up from where he sat at the other end of the counter. He smiled. “Hey, Lance.” He said, taking his attention away from a small project he was working on- something delicate and complicated, as those were the projects Hunk liked to take on. “You hungry at all?”

Lance hesitated, wondering if he had the energy to respond in a normal tone. Finally deciding that he could, he nodded. “A bit.” Hunk reached carefully into a bowl of fruit -as if he were afraid to bruise them- and tossed Lance an apple. Startled, Lance fumbled with it, but didn’t drop it. “Thanks.” He said.  _ ‘Why did I say yes? I’m not even hungry.’  _ He thought, rubbing his thumb against the bright red skin and listening to it squeak.

“So how was Cuba?” Hunk asked, fingers back to the pile of twisted wires and bolts- Lance always wondered how he managed to deal with such messes.

Lance hummed, playing with the stem. He kind of wanted to eat it, but another part of him was repulsed. Maybe he was coming down with something. “It was… nice.” He tasted salt and smoke in the back of his throat. Feeling nauseous, he placed the apple on the counter in front of him. “I finally got to relax a little bit- got to know my niece and nephew, They’ve changed.” A bitter chuckle made his chest hollow, and he kept his eyes trained on the apple.

“I know what you mean. My nieces and nephews are so much bigger now.” Hunk laughed, carefully starting to twist two wires together. “We’ve changed too, though… that might be a part of it.” Lance couldn’t find it in him to reply. “Even since we started piloting Voltron.” Hunk continued. Silence in the room. Hunk had stopped fidgeting with his mess of wires and metal pieces. “...even since coming back to earth.” He finished.

Lance had to laugh at that. He scoffed. “You think?” The pure sarcasm in his voice shocked him a little, but he’d opened his mouth and the words spilled out in a rush. “Now that we’re here, we can see just how much we contribute.” Alright, that wasn’t too bad- they could easily take that as a positive observation.

His heart sank as the background silence endured, telling him that Hunk had not yet returned to his project. “What do you mean?” He asked.

Lance scrambled for a sufficient answer. “Um, well… like, you know, seeing the MFE pilots, and all the talented fighters here, it sorta… puts things in perspective.” He was rambling, needed to  _ stop. _

“Knowing that, you know, if-if one of us were to-  _ not be able to pilot,  _ or had to… not…” He trailed off, feeling more pairs of eyes on him than just Hunk’s. “...not pilot… knowing that there would be others who  _ could.”  _ He finished.

_ ‘Nice job.’  _ He thought, heart plummeting even lower. He’d never felt so vulnerable, so  _ watched. _

_ It  _ hadn’t  _ pressed  _ on him so much.

_ It  _ hadn’t made him feel so  _ vulnerable. _

Pidge seemed to think this was the ideal moment to pipe in. “Yeah, try getting Black to accept anyone but Keith.” She snorted, not looking up from her laptop. Lance watched her, frowning.

“I didn’t mean  _ Keith-  _ I just0 there are others who- nevermind.” He muttered, placing his hand on the apple and rolling it back and forth across the top of the counter.

“It is true that Black is more…  _ choosey  _ with his pilots, but all the Lions are, to an extent.” Allura said. She was tucked into a corner of the couch with a cup of what Lance assumed was some sort of tea. Keith sat beside her, Kosmo at his side, his hands clasped with his elbows on his knees, a disconcertingly unreadable expression on his face.

“Y-yeah, but like- Keith would be one of the hardest to replace.” Lance blanched.  _ ‘Wow, that sounded terrible.’  _ He mustered up a grin and shot their captain a finger gun. “You’re uh- one of a kind, Mullet…” He muttered, attempting (and most likely failing) to fix his blunder.

_ ‘God, this is painful.’  _ Lance’s cheeks burned. He should just shut up-  _ he should have shut up minutes ago. _

Hunk made an odd sound, like he was contemplating what to say, and Lance looked at him, not wanting to see his other teammates’ expressions. “Well, I dunno, Lance-  _ all of us  _ are pretty damn irreplaceable.” 

Lance scowled lightly, turning his eyes to the apple again. It taunted him. It was so  _ bright  _ that it  _ hurt  _ to look at it.

“Are you not gonna eat that?” Hunk questioned quietly, breaking the thick silence that had settled on the room.

There was a pause. Lance felt his face fall slack, void of any discernible emotion, and he took in a slow breath. He didn’t want to talk about all this, he didn’t want to hear any of it,  _ know  _ any of it- the knowledge they offered and the knowledge he  _ had  _ sickened him -even if it tempted him. Even if a part of him -some  _ naive, childish  _ part of him- wanted to know.

“I… don’t like apples.” He said quietly, standing as he did so. His hand moved on its own, picking up the fruit and clutching it, regarding it carefully. The other hand was tucked into his pocket, sliding fingers over the heavy paper that sat there.

He left without a word, leaving behind a stifling atmosphere, still holding the apple. The hole in his chest made him take deeper breaths to calm the light, airy, anxious fingers that coiled their way through his nerves.

His eyes fixed on the apple, with its tauntingly red, glossy skin - _ sweet promises-  _ he couldn’t hear his footsteps echoing through the cavernous hallways. His feet carried him down corridors, up stairways, ignoring the sign that warned “maintenance personnel only”, to the air, to the wind. His thoughts mingled and melded in his mind, until it was all just a writhing, tangled mess that he couldn’t even  _ hope  _ to untangle.

_ ‘So quick’ _

_ ‘So easy’ _

_ ‘Instantaneous’ _

_ ‘Almost painless’ _

_ It  _ hadn’t been so damn  _ loud.  _ It was hurting ears, almost… the thoughts.

With  _ It…  _ there really hadn’t been any thoughts.

Lance wandered towards the edge of the roof, to that ledge. He wondered for a brief moment why there was no fence around it, trapping people in- but the thought was quickly gone as he leaned over the relatively short wall that separated him from the open air.

His balance swam, rocking back and forth inside him, as he looked down at the “garden”, at the paths and glorified golf cats and tiny people.

_ ‘So fast’ _

_ ‘You wouldn’t even know’ _

“Would I?” He murmured quietly. He rubbed his thumb against the apple’s skin and heard it squeal. He eyed the fruit, then set it down -carefully- on the ledge before hauling himself up.

He sat, legs dangling out over the precarious space, and watched. A plane streaked through the air, high above his head, painting a road into the desert. The sun burned, glaring at him from its just-past-noon seat, and he picked up the apple to shield its delicate skin from the heat.

The void in his chest grew,  _ painfully. _

_ It  _ would be such a relief…

The apple looked so sweet now.

And it was  _ right there  _ for him, so  _ easy  _ to just throw himself if, to enjoy it-

His hands lifted from the hot metal ledge and held the fruit, inches from his mouth.

To just  _ bite- _

“I thought you didn’t like apples.”

Lance sucked in a breath, lips brushing the apple as he tensed at the sudden voice. He gripped the edge of the wall with one hand, while the other held the apple tightly. His hand seared against the surface. His cheeks boiled and his heart knocked against his ribcage. He glanced over his shoulder at the new arrival.

“...I don’t.” He muttered, looking back out at the desert horizon. He breathed out slowly. “...why are you here? There’s no way you finished that mess of a project already.” Lance said, trying to change the subject.

He could hear Hunk shuffling where he stood, a few feet back from the edge. “Not yet… things like that take time, y’know?” Came the reply. The air rippled below him, pushing against his feet. The world continued on below, oblivious to the situation above it. The breeze cooled Lance’s burning face. “Hey, Lance? Can you come here?” Hunk’s voice was quiet, shaking a little. “Please?”

Lance turned his gaze to the apple once more. It still tempted him,  _ teased  _ him- he wasn’t sure if it was the apple he longed for, or the things it promised, but that wasn’t the question- the question was whether or not he’d take the chance he was being offered- so ripe for the picking…

The tension snapped like a branch as he swung his legs carelessly around so that he tottered where he perched, drawing a whimper from his teammate. His feet touched the metal floor and he righted himself, hands searching his pockets for his paper- ah. There it was.

“...sure thing, Hunk.” He responded, heart heavy with the missed opportunity.

“...thanks, buddy. You know how…  _ heights  _ make me feel.” Hunk murmured, reaching a hand out to Lance.

Lance brushed past him. “Yeah. I know. Sorry.” Bitter. He didn’t  _ sound  _ very  _ sorry _ .

The apple sat on the edge, beginning to bake under the barrage of heat. Lance knew it would rot if it were left there.

_ ‘I could’ve taken it.’  _ He thought as he started down the stairs, passing Keith on his way down. He ignored him.

_ ‘But you didn’t?’  _ The apple jeered at him.

Lance shook his head, hearing Hunk and Keith mumbling to each other as he trudged down the steps.

_ ‘There are more.’  _ More what? Apples? Chances?

_ ‘They’ll never hand you another one like me.’  _

Lance sneered at the thought, fingers caressing the note paper.

_ “Rot.”  _ He growled.

“Just  _ rot.” _

 


	6. Chapter 6

He stole a car.

Maybe “stole” was a strong word... borrowed. The car would get back to them, so they wouldn't have to worry about that.

He'd grabbed a pair of keys for the government issue vehicles out of the case they kept them in (he _had_ stolen the master key, he'd admit to that, but he'd left it on top of the case) and pulled out of the parking garage, flashing his personal ID at the sleep deprived security guard as he left.

Dark circles rested beneath his eyes, telling of countless nights of restless (or lost) sleep. Lance wore his three-days unwashed jeans and an old T-shirt of Marco's. His jacket sat on the passenger seat beside him, containing nothing but a pen- he clutched his folded note paper in his hands, which gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles blanched. His lips pressed into a thin line, somewhat frantic eyes glued to the empty road before him, he chased the darkness of the path ahead. His vision tunneled so that his eyes missed the beacon of a moon hanging in the black.

A four hour and twenty minute trip boiled down to a three hour fifty minute drive with a disregard to the speed limits. Lance's muscles contracted, pulling on his bones, tensing his shoulders. The paper seemed to add ten pounds to his hand, causing him to turn the wheel with jerky movements. He chewed his lip as he waited at the stop light, cars pushing in on him from all sides. He felt eyes bearing down on his skin, glinting from behind tinted windows, from the early morning joggers, turning their heads from their sidewalks to stare. Paranoia gnawed at the nape of his neck. He was being persecuted at the traffic stop, it seemed. The light turned green and he tapped the gas, pushing forward.

 _It_ hadn't judged him like this.

 _It_ was teasing him lightly, reeling him in; hook, line, and _sinker._

Lance knew it. He'd take it. Hadn't he been chasing it anyways? That feeling? Non-feeling?

He stopped the car in the one hour parking in a daze. He leaned forwards, hands still stuck to the wheel. Had he moved at all in those three hours? Four hours? Whatever it was.

Whatever _It_ was... this was the closest he had ever gotten.

He raised his head. The sunrise did little to lift the gray from the ocean. The sky was desaturated and flat, gazing back at him apathetically. He looked away... gently placed the paper down on the dashboard... slipped on his jacket and tucked his note paper into the pocket as he got out of the car and slammed the door.

His head buzzed. The weight in his breast pocket bowed his back, pulling him towards the earth, downward. Stones in his chest, he ignored it all and crossed the dusty boardwalk to the beach. The trodden sand shifted under his heavy feet, threatening a rolled ankle if he weren't cautious.

 _It_ carried no danger of injury.

 _It_ promised “no pain”.

Most of all, It promised answers.

Waves tested the tips of his worn down sneakers.

Answers. Was It comfortable or unpleasant? Was It a dense, all-surrounding darkness or a blinding white? Did It shout of anger and confusion and concern and emotion, whisper sweetness and warmth and memories or did It stare in distant, deep silence?

Dim blue reflected from the eyes to the water to the sky. The paper increased its gravity. Lance watched the herds of pale seafoam spit and splash and shy away from his ankles.

He pulled the paper from his pocket. Thin and fragile, ready to fall apart if the water reached it, they stared each other down. Unfolded, dull words spoke of confusion, of too much time lost to pondering It. Contemplation? No... observations...?

Cold water bit his knees, dragging him back to the world. It shocked up his skin- _how he died,_ electricity arcing across his body, the way he screamed, the sear of his every nerve ending as muscles spasmed and his heart _seized-_

And then-

And then _what?!_

Lance’s eyes were wild, erratic as he scanned his note paper for anything- _anything_ that truly _truly_ resembled It- anything-

Words were tumbling over his lips, fingers shaking and chest heaving against the icy water.

“-not an embrace-”

“-not like drowning-”

“-It wasn’t like that-”

His eyes slammed shut. So chaotic. _Too_ chaotic. A voice called to him, It lurked beneath the waves that left salt on his elbows, It’s voice like spiced honey, smooth and biting, inviting-

If he dove in now, he might find It again. Feel It again. Just once. He needed to know, what the voice invited him to do.

It was killing him.

It was killing him, not knowing, searching, coming up with less than what he started with-

“Little early for a swim, isn’t it?”

Too focused to be surprised, he jerked his shoulders up in a shrug. He should have known; they’d notice the car was gone, notice no one had officially signed it out.

“Feels like the perfect time.” Lance muttered, fingers rubbing the paper. His hands strained to keep the notes above the water, it was so heavy; he didn’t know how much longer he could handle it. “How’d you find me?” His voice shook.

He heard the splashing now as Keith waded out to stand beside him. “All the Garrison vehicles have trackers.” He replied, voice soft against the crash of the waves hitting the shore behind them. “...what are you doing out here, Lance?” The question was quiet, and didn’t sound truly inquisitive, as if he already knew.

Lance scoffed. His hands trembled. “It’s not like that.” Keith didn’t understand, didn’t understand it… that need to know, to feel _It._

Lance allowed himself to rip his eyes from the paper to look at Keith. The older man’s eyebrows were drawn together, eyes like cotton and an equally soft frown.

“It certainly looks like _that,_ Lance.” He was so quiet. Lance shook his head slowly, looking back to the paper. Keith couldn’t read the Spanish, but he was sure that he could pick out a few key words.

The waves pawed at him. It whispered to him through the breeze. The wind lifted his hair from his face. “I don’t want to die, Keith.” Keith’s head whipped back to stare at him, as if he were shocked he’d put it so bluntly. Lance kept his eyes on his paper. He sighed. “But I felt It. I _knew_ It, and then I _lost_ It, and I can’t-” His throat closed up. “-I can’t find It? Anywhere? It felt- It was so-” A shuddering breath. “...I need to find It. To know It -feel It- again.”

Keith didn’t touch him, but he did move closer. _“Why?”_ He asked, sounding lost.

A watery chuckle. “Because if I don’t, I’ll go crazy. It’ll kill me.” He pressed the paper to his chest. Seagulls screamed overhead. The sand was restless and solid beneath his feet. “Every day. Every hour, the question won’t go away.” His lips worked, stuttering around the words. “‘What is It?’ ‘How does It feel?’ _‘How does It compare?’_ And they’re it’s so _heavy,_ Keith.” He spoke without thinking. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He raised his head and pleaded with his eyes. Keith’s expression was pained. “Sometimes, it’s hard to get out of bed because it’s too heavy.” He whispered.

Keith was silent. Finally, he reached out, touched the paper. Nothing happened. Lance didn’t know if he expected something to. Keith inhaled; exhaled sharply.

“Do you think you’ll ever really know?” He rasped.

Lance’s stomach dropped, but he’d been waiting for the inevitable question. His knees wavered.

“...no.” He confessed. The waves seemed to flatten. Everything came to a standstill.

It hurt.

It was heavy.

And It was quiet.

“...It’s everything and nothing. It’s full of opposites. It scares me, but I want to touch It. It feels like It should be confusing, but It’s so simple.” He was wet. Cold. His cheeks felt drained of blood. He stood stiffly in the surf, unsure of what he was going to say, unsure of himself. He touched his temple with one hand. “...and It’s all so heavy.” He breathed. The sky was lightening considerably. The clouds were the only moving bodies. “...and I don’t think I can carry it much longer.” His fingers curled into his paper.

Quiet.

A hand on his shoulder.

Keith’s breathing matched the ebb and flow of the tide.

“It seems difficult.” Lance laughed at that, bitter. Keith went on, ignoring the sad sound. “What do you think It is, really?” Lance regarded him, confused, finally taking his eyes from the paper. Keith nodded to the object in question. “It. Right now; what do you think It is?”

Lance turned his eyes back to it. He smoothed the surface as much as possible.

He knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t warm, or cold, or painful or confusing or sensational or bland or light-

He slumped, losing the strength to keep any semblance of good posture. Sensing it was losing him, It made one more grasp for him. He tapped the paper with one finger.

“It’s… nothing.” He said simply. “Nothing.” He closed his eyes. “And heavy. Terrifying.”

Keith seemed to play with the water, flicking at the cat’s paws as they came. “... anything you can’t, I’ll carry. Let me carry something until you decide whether to let go or not.” Keith murmured.

Lance felt a beat in his chest. The world resumed play as if nothing had ever happened. The wind sighed. His paper _(his thoughts)_ was deadweight in his hands.

His eyes lifted from the paper, to the waves, to the sun bleeding into the sky, to the clouds. His fingers gripped and loosened, gripped and loosened on the paper.

His lips hurt from underuse when he found his first small, real smile in weeks.

It still watched him, but silenced Itself, content to just watch from a distance.

The sky had smoothed itself- blank, slate coloured, plain… but, not nothing.

Lance breathed.

He’d had the answer from the beginning… at least, the only answer he’d hope to get- it was just… nothing. Something the human mind was entirely incapable of fully grasping, or obtaining.

He figured it was less a matter of needed to know what It _was,_ but rather how to...come to a conclusion, he supposed. Decide… release?

The paper weight won and dropped.

And the thoughts dampened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it.  
> The ending is technically ambiguous, buuuut I'd say it leans towards a happy ending. Thought I'd take a less traveled road in the world of literary fiction, lol  
> It was really fun to write- I've been working on this since early early September- all handwritten, to really think about what I was writing. It was challenging to write (technically, in terms of adding metaphor, foreshadowing, symbolism, diction, everything, lol) and emotionally, as these sorts of thoughts hit pretty close to home.  
> But, anyways. I really hope you enjoyed. I bet if you read it again, you'd see something new.  
> I don't want to sound like I'm bragging, sorry, haha, I'm just very proud of this and was so excited to share it.  
> I love you all.  
> It gets better,  
> <3


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